


One Day / And the Next

by wesleysgirl



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 17:53:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4358624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleysgirl/pseuds/wesleysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was originally two separate stories but it makes more sense for AO3 to combine them into one.<br/>Written for a fic challenge at Peaches Won't Be Happy.<br/>The challenge was to write a story inspired by these lyrics:</p>
<p>    <i>Today is the first day of the rest</i><br/><i>Of our lives,</i><br/><i>Tomorrow is too late to pretend.</i><br/><i>Everything's all right --</i><br/><i>I'm not getting any younger.</i><br/><i>As long as you don't get any older,</i><br/><i>I'm not going to state that yesterday never was.</i><br/>("Church on Sunday" by Green Day)</p>
    </blockquote>





	One Day / And the Next

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally two separate stories but it makes more sense for AO3 to combine them into one.  
> Written for a fic challenge at Peaches Won't Be Happy.  
> The challenge was to write a story inspired by these lyrics:
> 
> _Today is the first day of the rest_  
>  _Of our lives,_  
>  _Tomorrow is too late to pretend._  
>  _Everything's all right --_  
>  _I'm not getting any younger._  
>  _As long as you don't get any older,_  
>  _I'm not going to state that yesterday never was._  
>  ("Church on Sunday" by Green Day)

**One Day**

There's nothing but today.

Wesley can't remember yesterday, and tomorrow, he won't be able to remember today. He knows that he can't remember, and that's the worst part of it. Everything wiped clean nightly, like a slate being erased.

He supposes he should be glad that he can remember who he is. There are many things that he knows instinctively -- how to fix things that break, for example. He finds a wrench when the pipe under the sink is leaking and uses it to tighten the... well, there's another hole in his memory. If indeed he ever knew what plumbing parts were called, he's forgotten now.

Wesley leaves the wrench there in the hopes that its presence might jar something free tomorrow.

He wonders if he's eating the same meals every day and not realizing it.

By evening, the person who delivers things that he needs seems familiar, on the days when he visits more than once.

The next morning, Wes wakes up and once again -- he assumes -- finds himself in an unfamiliar place, unable to leave. It's a small flat, more like a hotel suite than an apartment really, but the windows are nailed shut and the door is locked from the outside. He tries everything he can think of -- everything that he's probably tried many times before.

Most days, he's given up by noon.

On this particular morning, the blonde delivers some fresh fruit, including sweet grapes that are so cold that they make Wesley's teeth ache. Some part of him seems to recognize the man, although in truth he knows he doesn't remember. Knows that he just wants to.

In any case, there's no part of him convinced that he could escape through the doorway -- the armed guards convince him of that more readily than anything else might have.

The man comes back just after two in the afternoon, this time with a steaming hot meal. Wesley has already gone through the refrigerator and found plenty of food, so he's not sure why more is being brought in. Unless they're afraid he's forgotten how to cook? In which case, why bother with the stove and all the cooking implements?

The blonde man puts the dish on the range, then turns and looks at him. "I'm Spike," he says, raising one eyebrow. "That ring any bells?"

Wesley looks at him for a long moment, hoping that something will seem familiar in this haze of amnesia, but there's nothing. "No. I'm sorry. Am I supposed to remember you?"

The man -- Spike -- shakes his head. "No. Just... I keep asking. Just in case."

"Did something happen to me?" Wesley doesn't like the way his voice sounds; like a child's.

"Yeah." Spike steps closer, and it makes Wesley uncomfortable, but he holds his ground. "Spell went wrong." The man turns away from him, stalks to the other side of the kitchenette, swears loudly. "Christ! We've had this same conversation a hundred times. You really don't remember."

"I'm sorry," Wesley says again, and he feels so lost that he folds his arms around himself.

Spike looks concerned, and comes back, putting his own arms around Wesley and holding him. "Not your fault," he says, and Wesley can't ignore the way the man is rubbing the lower halves of their bodies together. "It'll wear off eventually. They said so."

Wesley's going to ask who 'they' are, but when he looks down into the other man's eyes, Spike kisses him.

His body remembers.

They fall to the floor, panting, tearing at each other's clothing to get down to skin. Cocks slide next to each other, slick.

"Please," Wesley says, even though he's not sure what he's asking for.

Spike's repeating it, chanting it, pushing Wesley down into the carpeted floor. "Please, please," he says, like a mantra, like he's asking the world to open up for him. There are tears behind his eyelashes, and a desperate twist to his lips.

They shove against each other, frantic hips rising and falling. "God," Wesley gasps, just before he comes.

Shaking, Spike continues to move, thrusting his cock against Wesley's thigh. It's as if there's something he wants, and he knows he can't have it. When the orgasm hits him, he groans and buries his face in Wesley's throat.

They get dressed awkwardly, Wesley because he doesn't know why he's done this, and Spike because... well, Wesley's not sure. Other than the fact that Spike obviously remembers everything that Wesley's forgotten.

"We're... friends, I take it?" Wesley asks finally, pausing in buttoning his shirt when he realizes that one of the buttons had been torn off.

"Something like that," Spike mutters, turning away.

But before he leaves, he comes back and holds Wesley again, tightly, like if he just hugs him hard enough he can keep the memories in Wesley's head.

"This had been going on for a long time, hasn't it?" Wesley asks, his voice muffled against Spike's shoulder. Around the room he can see an assortment of items, all placed carefully as reminders of previous days.

He remembers none of them.

"Don't worry," Spike says, pulling back and taking Wesley's face between his palms. "Any day now you'll come out of this. Tomorrow morning you could wake up and remember everything."

When he leaves, Wesley sits on the floor, cross-legged. He covers his eyes with his hands and rocks back and forth. Tells himself that he's not going to forget again.

He doesn't want to stay here forever, not when each day is the only day of the rest of his life.

___________________

**And the Next**

Wesley wakes up, and he remembers everything. All of it rushing back over him, every detail, leaving him clutching a fistful of sheet and breathless.

As soon as he can manage it, he makes his way to the door. He knocks loudly, then speaks through the wood without waiting for it to open. "Get Angel. *Now.*"

He goes to the bathroom and splashes cold water over his face, then stands looking at himself in the mirror. It's all there -- everything he was, everything he's done. All of it back in place as if it were never gone. His face seems familiar, and yet strange. He wonders how much time has passed.

There's a sound in the doorway. It's Angel.

"Wes?" he asks uncertainly. He looks the same at least -- hair slightly mussed, eyes dark and pained.

"Tell me what happened." Wesley needs to know -- needs an explanation, something to anchor him here. "How long?"

Angel shifts his weight to his other foot, hesitates. "Um... are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, maybe you should take some time to -- "

"For Christ's sake, Angel, haven't I lost enough time already? *How long?*"

"Four months."

Wesley puts a hand on the edge of the sink, lets it help support him. Four months. All right... it could have been worse. Maintain some perspective here, Pryce. Only four months. "How did it happen?"

He's not actually sure he wants to hear the answer, and he can tell from Angel's expression that he doesn't want to give it. "The spell -- the memory one that you did? It sort of, um, reacted. With another spell."

Wesley doesn't understand. "What other spell?"

"One that he did," another voice says from behind Angel, and the sound of it makes Wesley ache. Spike appears on Angel's other side, his head tilted slightly as he looks at Wesley. "Well, had done. When he agreed to take Wolfram & Hart they did a big memory wipe on all of you. Seems like you mix memory spells together, sometimes you end up with a clean slate."

That's exactly what he'd been. A wave of terror at the realization that he might never have come back from that place crashes over Wesley, and he clutches frantically at the edge of the sink, reeling.

Someone's talking, and there are strong hands holding him up. Angel's hands, he thinks, and struggles to get away, overwhelmed by the knowledge that this may have been Angel's fault. He wants to tell Angel not to touch him, but he's lost the words, and that just increases the terror.

Everything seems far away, and rather loud. He thinks dimly that someone is shouting.

Gradually, he realizes that everything's quiet again. His heart isn't beating quite so frantically, and someone is still holding him, but he knows instinctively that it isn't Angel. Still dimly, he thinks that somewhere in there he heard the click of the front door closing, that Angel left.

"Shh," Spike says, rocking him gently back and forth. There's an arm around Wesley's shoulders. "Wes? You're still here, right?"

He manages to say, "Yes," rather hoarsely, even as his hands claw at Spike's arm, holding the vampire so tightly that he's sure it must hurt, but unable to stop himself. "Still here. God."

"Shh. S'okay. You're back, everything's gonna be okay now." Spike's voice is nearly crooning, and Wesley can tell that he's trying to convince himself as well.

Wesley turns in Spike's arms so that he can wrap his own around the wiry frame, tightening his grip, burying his face in Spike's shoulder. "Don't let go," he begs, too terrified to even consider being ashamed.

"Won't." Spike's hand slides up underneath Wesley's shirt, strong fingers tracing over his skin. "Right here. Not going anywhere."

A new terror strikes him, and he clutches at Spike even more frantically. "This hasn't happened before? I haven't remembered, and then...?"

"No," Spike says quickly. "They said if... *when* your memory came back, no reason to think it wouldn't be for good."

Spike's shoulder is hard, pressed against his forehead. "I'm not going to forget again," Wesley says, needing to hear it out loud.

"You're not. You're back."

"I'm not going to forget again." Wesley realizes that he's nearly hyperventilating, and makes a careful effort to slow down his breathing, concentrating on the rhythm of it instead of the feeling that there's not enough oxygen in the room.

He pulls his face away from Spike's shoulder finally to discover that they're in the bedroom, that he's curled up on the bed and hanging on to Spike as if for dear life.

"I'm... sorry," he says, suddenly embarrassed, and tries to pull away, but Spike won't let him go.

"Do you remember everything?" Spike asks. There's something pained in his voice, something fearful.

Wesley looks into Spike's eyes and then stays there, trapped. "Yes." He remembers. Remembers Spike turning up in L.A. with no idea how he'd got there. Remembers how they were inexplicably drawn to each other, like two halves of the same whole. Remembers...

He brings his lips to Spike's and kisses him, and it's so familiar that Wesley feels tears welling up in his eyes. The taste of Spike's mouth -- slightly salty, with an undertone of nicotine -- is like nothing else he's ever known.

Spike makes a sound of relief, or maybe gratitude, and kisses him back with desperation. One hand comes up to cradle the back of Wesley's head, the kiss deepening, becoming even more intense. "God yes," Spike mutters into his mouth, as if he can't bear to back up enough to speak properly. "Wes. My Wes."

And Wesley thinks he might actually be crying then, but he's not sure it matters, because he's in Spike's arms and the kissing isn't showing any signs of stopping.

Spike's hands are all over him, pushing his shirt up and then pulling it off. Spike lays him back down on the bed, lips and tongue tracing what Wesley imagines must be every vein in his body, starting at his throat and then moving downward. Spike's hand is resting over Wesley's clothed but straining erection, as if he's keeping it company. "Love you," Spike says, sucking a taut nipple into his mouth and then flicking it with his tongue. "Love you so fucking much, Wes."

Wesley gasps and arches his back, pushing his cock more firmly against Spike's palm. "Please," he begs. "Please, please..."

"What do you want, Wes?" Spike's voice is husky, barely playful. "Tell me and I'll do it. Anything."

"Don't stop," Wesley says. "More. Touch me. Need you. Please..."

Spike moves up to kiss him again, hands busily undressing both of them until they are gloriously naked together.

Wesley squirms against him, needing more, knowing that he won't be satisfied until there's no more closer for them to be.

"Hang on," Spike says, sliding down Wesley's body and spreading his legs wide, running his tongue up Wesley's inner thigh. "Don't want to hurt you." And his tongue teases into Wes, making Wesley throw his arm up over his eyes.

Spike's tongue probes wetly, leaving a slick damp path, pushing further into Wesley. Wesley is panting, squirming, desperate for Spike to fuck him.

"Please," he says again. "Spike, *love,* please..."

He shivers when Spike slides up his body, the vampire's hard cock dragging up the length of his lower body. Shudders when Spike kisses him and lifts his leg, bending it at the knee, settling down between his thighs.

Cries out when Spike's cock presses into him, stretching him open, moving inside him.

Spike is shuddering too, supporting himself with one arm while the other hand pulls at Wesley's swollen nipple, tweaking it. "Christ," he says, pushing deeper, and it feels like he's splitting Wesley open. "It's been so long."

Wesley whimpers in agreement, spreads his legs further apart, flexes his hips slightly to give Spike better access. The pain is deep, but it feels right somehow, and when Spike slides his hand down to Wesley's cock and circles it with his strong fingers, Wes' breath catches in his throat. It's too much --feels like everything from the waist down is on fire, like he's going to fly apart. "Please... I can't..."

Spike's fingers squeeze, just so, and at the same time Spike pulls part way out and then pushes his cock back in, and Wesley gives a desperate, nearly-pained shout and comes, his back arching up off the mattress as his orgasm explodes from him.

"That's my Wes, mine," Spike murmurs, continuing to fuck him, continuing to play with his still-pulsating cock. "Yeah. Gonna fuck you until you come again, love. Gonna make you scream."

Spike's cock feels incredible, pushing into him deep, deeper, moving across his prostate. Wesley feels his own cock start to fill again as Spike's fingers work him. He wants to close his eyes because it's so good, but he wants to keep them open because he doesn't want to lose sight of Spike. Because, and it's not hard to admit it to himself, he's afraid he might close his eyes and then forget. "Love you," he says. He can hear the fear in his voice. Says it again. "Spike."

"Yeah," Spike says, on the heels of another thrust. "Tell me."

"Love you." It's easier to say now. "God. Love you so much, missed you."

"Good." Spike's approval is like a caress. He shoves Wesley's legs further apart, thrusts in harder, kisses Wes and then runs his mouth down to Wes' throat, which aches strangely. "God, I want you," he murmurs against the skin.

"You've... got me..." Wesley manages.

There's a faint chuckle from Spike. "Yeah. 'Course I do." His voice is good-humoured, but Wesley can hear that there's something more to it than that.

"Oh," he says, realising with a shiver. "You want to... *yes.* Please."

Spike hesitates.

"Please, Spike. *Please.* I need you to." In demonstration, Wesley tilts his head back further, exposing more of his throat.

He almost doesn't feel it when Spike bites into him -- is too lost in the other sensations -- but when Spike swallows for the first time there's a faint burning pain that flashes through all of his veins like lightning, like an electrical shock. With each burst of suction, each pull of Spike's lips and tongue on his skin, there's another flash.

Spike is fucking him harder, harder than he can ever remember, and even as he thinks the word Wesley bursts in tears and orgasm both at the same time, his whole world narrowed to cock and arse and throat and, pounding, the beating of his heart.

When he comes back, Spike is licking his throat gently, still moving slowly inside him, although Wesley can tell from the softening cock and slickness that Spike must have come as well.

"Still here?" Spike asks.

Wesley tightens his arms around the vampire. "You're going to give me a complex about it if you keep asking," he says through the hoarseness. "I thought you said 'they' told you that once I came back, I was back for good."

"They did." Spike licks Wesley's throat one last time, then backs off, turning them both onto their sides so that Wesley is cradled in his arms, safe.

He falls asleep.

* * * * *

When Wesley wakes up this time, he still remembers. He looks over at the clock, over the shoulder of the sleeping vampire, and sees that it's evening.

His movements wake Spike, who stirs and sits up, the white sheet falling down around his waist into graceful folds that look arranged by some artist instead of gravity. "You all right?"

"I think," Wesley says, sitting up himself and sliding a hand around to the small of Spike's back, "that we should go take a shower."

Spike kisses him, hard. "Yeah."

There's no dearth of hot water, and they spend a good half hour under the spray first washing, and then Spike fucks Wesley against the wall, everything slippery with soap suds. It's hot in more ways than just temperature.

Wesley leans his forehead against his arm, the feel of Spike sliding into him making him tremble. Spike groans, hands tight on Wesley's hips, probably leaving bruises, and Wesley can't bring himself to care in the slightest. Welcomes the marks, in fact, although that might be left over from the past months of wanting things to remind him of where he'd been and what he'd done.

"That's my Wes," Spike says, pulling all the way out and teasing Wesley with just the tip of his cock, then shoving back in quickly. "My wonderful... fucking..."

And Wesley remembers this about Spike as well, the nonsensical cursing during the act and how it always made him smile.

Wesley smiles.

Then he forgets to because Spike's fingers are wrapped around his cock, pulling and twisting hard and fast. "God yes," Wesley gasps.

Spike grunts and bites down on Wesley's shoulder, not hard enough to break the skin, and Wesley can feel Spike coming inside him, shuddering behind him as if he's going to break into pieces. "Wes," Spike says, a low groan. "Christ..."

When Wesley comes this time, he feels everything, every nerve in his body, like he's been sleeping for a long time and is just now waking up. Spike's arm around his waist supports him, and almost before the last wave passes, Wesley turns and kisses Spike.

They towel off slowly, taking their time, touching each other here and there. After a few minutes, Spike goes back into the bedroom and throws himself down onto the bed, watching Wesley through the open door.

In the mirror, Wesley thoughtfully fingers the bite marks on his throat, puzzling over the long, healed scar that he can't quite recall. There's something there, like a vague echo of a memory, but...

"You coming back to bed?" Spike calls.

"No," Wesley says decisively.

"What?" He can hear the concern in Spike's voice, and within seconds Spike is back in the doorway.

"I don't want to spend another night under this roof as long as I live," Wesley says, meeting Spike's eyes. "This is *Angel's* flat. Angel's bed. Oh, I know he never slept here, but it's his all the same, and I want out."

Spike nods, and they start to get dressed.

In the doorway to the flat, Wesley pauses once. There's a dead lightbulb sitting on an end table, and a magazine with the pages carefully flattened out. Over on the windowsill -- shade pulled down and hooked into place -- is a slip of paper folded like an accordion.

He remembers doing these things, but none of them mean anything to him now.

Nothing does but Spike.

Wesley turns to him and smiles. "It's the next day," he says, and steps out into the hall.

 

End.


End file.
